


Knife

by yeaka



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-10
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-09-16 13:36:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9274400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Volga would have things another way, but Ghirahim is particular.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Legend of Zelda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The stone is old and crumbling, but it’ll hold long enough for their purposes. If it does happen to fall and crush a few minions, it shouldn’t be too much trouble—they won’t be able to keep much here anyway. Perhaps a barrier will strengthen it long enough for the battle to be won, and, if they’re lucky, entice the other side to think something special lurks here—and if enough crowd inside, Ghirahim can topple it on them. The thought alone makes him chuckle, and he flickers across the space to continue surveying the far wall, though he already knows he’ll claim this keep for his own. 

A slight change in the light—a red-orange tint with a subtle flare of heat—catches his attention. He doesn’t show it. Doesn’t bother to turn. Volga’s dark voice echoes off the towering walls: “Ghirahim.”

“Volga,” Ghirahim purrs. He puts a mischievous note of allure into it but still doesn’t bother to turn his head—he knows the lack of physical acknowledgement irritates his fellow general. And even when they’re on the same side, Ghirahim can’t seem to stop himself from luxuriating in others’ annoyance. 

Tonight, Volga presses on anyway, stomping right in over the sand. Ghirahim can hear the faint give of it beneath a dragon’s weight. Only a lance’s length away, Volga growls, “You should serve _me_ , Ghirahim. He doesn’t know how to wield you.”

Ghirahim snorts, finally sparing a glance over his shoulder. “And you do?” 

Volga only scowls at Ghirahim’s playful grin. “He’s been sealed far too long. He doesn’t understand weapons like me. I _am_ one. I fight with _everything_ , and with a worthy sword in my hands...”

“But _you’re_ not worthy,” Ghirahim coos. Volga frowns and takes another step forward, but Ghirahim steps coyly out of his reach. “You are no _lord_ , not even a hero...” Volga’s sneer only deepens, but Ghirahim doesn’t relent, doesn’t show how truly flattered he is by it all. Even if Volga could never be his master, Volga could, perhaps, serve for other things—he’s quite handsome beneath his many plates of armour. And Ghirahim does so enjoy _fire_. It pleases him to hold things that would burn straight through another’s skin. Volga’s gauntlet-heavy hands curl into fists at his sides, and Ghirahim sighs the final blow: “I’m afraid I just don’t dabble with minor threats.”

Volga growls, “I am more powerful than that scaly blob you fawn over.”

Ghirahim bristles. The game of it melts away, and he hisses instead, “That’s only his imprisoned form. His true body would make you quake.”

“I fly above quakes,” Volga counters just as fiercely, again daring to approach. This time Ghirahim stands firm, letting Volga into his personal space, to feel the steam ghost across him when Volga sneers, “But we both know Zelda’s forces will defeat him anyway.” Ghirahim’s eyes flare, but Volga is already circling, strolling behind Ghirahim, sidling up against his back to hiss over his shoulder, “And you haven’t gone simpering after the chosen ‘hero’ for a reason—you know what you long for. You know you need someone who understands your darker side to handle you right...” As Ghirahim makes a scoffing noise, Volga hovers his hands over Ghirahim’s hip, the metal scalding hot, even with a few scant centimeters between. Ghirahim can feel Volga searing his red robe. Volga growls deep in his throat, “I could make you _tremble_...”

For one moment, one quick, fleeting flash, Ghirahim allows himself to think of it—what it would be like to serve a _dragon of fire_ , to be held like this in Volga’s arms, to turn and call him _master_...

But Ghirahim is meant for greater things. He turns gracefully in Volga’s grip, lifting his hands to the plates on Volga’s broad shoulders, and he peers beneath the helmet to capture Volga’s eyes. He licks his own lips, leans in a fraction, and purrs, “ _You wish._ ”

Then he disappears in a kaleidoscope of diamonds and a song of ruckus laughter.


End file.
